


you never weigh me down

by swishandflickwit



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, CS AU, Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M, cs fan fic, cs ff, cs fluff, cs romance, post-Underworld fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:49:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6197449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swishandflickwit/pseuds/swishandflickwit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is it so wrong for me to give my beautifully deserving wife a gift a few days after our nuptials?” </p><p>Her jaw drops in disbelief. “You got me a wedding present?”</p><p>“Don’t sound too excited, now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	you never weigh me down

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the quote: "Be the one that guides me, but never weigh me down."

 

> _“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.” –Hebrews 6:19_

It's not a _traditional_ wedding but, hey, since when were either of them, or their families for that matter, _ever_ traditional?

The answer, quite obviously, is never.

Liam is there to marry and witness for them (so is Milah, Killian’s father, her maternal grandmother, her father’s evil twin brother, Pan albeit knocked out thanks to Rumplestiltskin – and basically, the Underworld is the perfect venue for one, huge, often inappropriately-timed family reunion) (but that is besides the point) as his conclusion to his unfinished business.

There’s the distinct smell of sulphur in the air and the field they’re in is supposedly the same one from Camelot except all the Middlemist flowers are… _wilted_ ~~dead~~. She’s in no ball gown, just her grimy cream sweater, her trusty red jacket and her worn boots. Killian’s jacket is in tatters, his shirt still has a slash from where she ran him through with Excalibur and it’s fucking _dark._

But Killian’s eyes gleam in what passes for moonlight there when she meets his stare and her son stands proudly behind her pirate as his best man; her father gives her away, face red and tears in his eyes but with a smile nonetheless and her whole _family_ is present to witness this monumental event in her life, for once.

And when Killian kisses her, her heart beating strong in both their chests and the promise of the future, a happy one, lingering in his lips – the direness of their current situation melts away and tradition is the furthest thing from her mind because this…

 _This_ is perfect.

**~oOo~**

“I have something for you,” Killian says as he leans against the door with his hook hidden behind his back, a couple days after their return from the Underworld.

As is customary after every return from a hero’s journey, a celebration in Granny’s is in order. It’s a miracle that they didn’t retire there the moment they touched ground in Storybrooke. But Emma managed to convince her parents that perhaps a few days to catch some rest was in order, seeing as how neither she nor he had slept during their, however brief, stints as Dark Ones.

Emma looks at him from the mirror as she pauses in the act of applying the final touches on her make-up, her face scrunched up in adorable confusion.

“What? Why?”

He shakes his head in amusement. “Is it so wrong for me to give my beautifully deserving wife a gift a few days after our nuptials?”

Her jaw drops in disbelief. “You got me a _wedding_ present?”

“Don’t sound too excited, now.”

She closes her mouth and gives her head a shake. “I’m just trying to figure out where you got the time to go out and buy me something without me noticing. We haven’t been apart ever since we got back!”

“Who says I bought it?” he asks with a devilish smirk and a mischievous raise of his eyebrow. She turns to face him fully and places her hands on her hips while her own eyebrows furrow in disapproval.

“If you pilfered that, I’m not taking it.”

Killian places his hand to his chest in mock offense. “My dear, how little you think of me.”

“You _are_ a pirate.” There’s no derision or scorn in her tone when she says the words this time. Only affection, as she steps into his space to smooth the lapels of his jacket and continues, “ _my_ pirate.”

She leans in and he hums in contentment, eyes closing, lips pursing in anticipation of her kiss and her hands tugging–

–away, hands tugging _away_ to push him and he fumbles, as his siren of a wife laughs teasingly at him.

“But I’m still not accepting whatever it is you’re hiding behind your back if you stole it.”

He replies with a little roll of his eyes, “No need to worry ‘bout stolen goods, Swan.”

Then he smiles, “But I _am_ telling the truth when I say that I didn’t purchase this. This one is something of an heirloom.”

It’s then that he raises his hook and Emma’s face… _falls_.

“It’s an anchor,” she says softly of the necklace dangling from his hook.

“Aye,” he answers, voice equally low. “I haven’t forgotten what I said before, you know, when I was…” he gulps and he can see the tears that spring to Emma’s eyes even with her face turned away from him. “Well, I said some unpleasant things, one of them being that I referred to you as this, as an _anchor_.”

Emma flinches and he aches… Remembering that period, the reason for why they share a heart now, it’s _difficult_. And it’s not like they want to shy away from it, but apart from not having the time to be anything but relieved to finally be together, the wounds that were reopened because of the other exposing them – both in the form of words and actions – still feel too _raw_ to be touched.

But they’ve come this far – battled giants and witches, demon children, Wicked Witches, Snow Queens and past selves and _each other_ , traversed time and travelled realms including the _Underworld,_ where they were parted by death but brought together and now they’re _married_. Whatever new hurdles they face, whether they be monsters brought by fate or the monsters in their heads, he figures, they’ll defeat them together, as they always do.

So he shoulders on, because he needs to say this, and he _hopes_ that it will only bring them closer and make them stronger by the end.

“The thing is, _I meant it_.”

Her head snaps up to his in confusion, and he sees the flash of hurt that crosses her eyes. But her silence speaks volumes, in that she trusts him enough to not interrupt and to at least listen to the supposed explanation she thinks he’s about to give and so he’s quick to continue, all false bravado and humor to cover up the nervousness he feels even though he’s sure she feels it too.

“Tell me, Swan, what _is_ an anchor?”

She rolls her eyes and he’s certain the annoyance that washes through him is all her when she replies, “Gee, I don’t know, aren’t _you_ the sailor between the two of us?”

He shakes his head in amused exasperation. “Give it a go, love.”

Emma crosses her arms and huffs. “Fine, I’ll play this game.” She pauses and takes a moment to think before saying quietly, head downcast once more, “I guess… it weighs the ship down.”

He sighs sadly, because he knows she means more than just its function of mooring the ship and _he_ was the one to put that idea in her mind.

Which is why, this is his time to change that.

“You’re not wrong. The purpose of an anchor _is_ to keep it steady, yeah?”

He ducks his head to catch her eyes, but to no avail. So he tips her chin up so her focus is on him as he tries to send her waves of reassurance – that too, doesn’t seem to work if her shifty gaze is any indication and it only hits him now, the repercussions that his actions have brought upon his Swan’s soul.

He gulps, trying not to falter with the weight of his guilt. “Let’s focus on that word, then, shall we?” He makes his tone light, as if he was talking to a classroom full of children and not his downtrodden wife. “ _Steady_. For what tragedy there is, when a ship has no anchor. See,” he brings the necklace up so that it dangles in the space between their faces, “when a sailor weighs anchor, it‘s to mark the end of a journey and a signal to rest because we’ve reached our destination and we’ve reached it _alive_. The anchor also keeps the ship steady through storms, and then does it become a sign of strength and steadfastness in an ever changing tide.”

He turns her slowly, so that they both face the mirror in the bathroom. With the necklace still hanging from his hook, he takes the other end of the chain with his hand.

As he places the necklace over her head, he speaks, tone going stronger as he lets the sincerity overcome his words, “and when the captain calls to raise anchor, it is a most reinvigorating feeling. It means the ocean calls once more with a new adventure waiting on the horizon and with that, _hope_.” This time when he sighs, it is in fond recall. “My mother loved the ocean but she loved what the anchor stood for even more. The sea is a capricious thing and so is the world, but she always used to say that we have hope, as an anchor for the soul.” He laughs, something fragile and childlike but still so bittersweet. “She would have gotten along splendidly with your mother, now that I think about it, what with their affinity to conjure a hope speech even in the bleakest of times…”

He trails off because there’s a reason that he doesn’t talk much of his mother – his memories of her equal parts tainted in both affection and pain. He tries to hold on to the affection, to the warmth that accompanies him when he sees the flash of his mother’s smile behind his eyelids or her tinkling laughter as it echoes in his ears. He clings to his mother, the very first light of his life, as he preserves her memory by introducing her to the current light of his life – who brings him back with a hand to the one of his that is resting on her shoulder, while her other clutches at the anchor now resting upon her chest.

Their eyes meet in the mirror.

“This is your mother’s necklace.”

He says nothing, doesn’t need to, not when she looks at him as she does now – walls down and open and trustful and oh so tender and _she knows_. Not when he feels overflowing with his love for Emma and her for him and how they love together, and he thinks about how he’ll never tire of this, how he can let the emotions raise him and he could float away.

And that’s why he stares back, just as hard, if only to stay in this moment and never get lost.

“You _are_ my anchor, love – not because you weigh me down. But because when I feel myself falter, you keep me grounded. You are my strength, my safety and my hope. My refuge and the one I can call _home_.

“It’s you, Emma,” he breathes, resting his cheek upon the side of her head so that he can whisper in her ear, “it’s always _you_.”

And then she’s turning in his arms and they’re _kissing_ , her hands cupping his cheeks while his tangle in her hair and it’s soft and slow, even when he’s backing her into the counter and she arches her back so that every part of them touches, like she wants to melt into him and they could both become one because of how they intertwine and you couldn’t tell where the other ended and the other began.

And he wouldn’t mind, he wouldn’t mind one bit.

When they break apart, with breathless giggles, she runs her nose along the bridge of his. “You know, you don’t have to ‘woo’ me any more. We’re _already_ married.”

He laughs but there’s nothing joking about the way he murmurs, “That’s where you’re wrong, Swan. Now that we _are_ wed, I’m going to spend the rest of my days showering you with the care and devotion you deserve.” And to lighten the atmosphere, he adds, “Just a precaution, so you don’t, you know, _leave_ me.”

Then he scrunches up his face cause that did _not_ sound joking at all.

She runs a hand down his face soothingly, “never.”

And the quiet way she says it, in no way deviates from the fierce protectiveness he suddenly feels surging through his veins.

“I love you,” he says.

She smiles, glowing and radiant and gods but he’ll truly never tire of this and of every time she utters, “I love you.”

He stretches out a hand, “Shall we go then, my love?”

“Ready when you are, Captain.”

And he doesn’t think he’ll ever truly be ready for Emma’s family and the way they’ve accepted him, tiny bouts of disbelief lancing through him even when they’d gone all the way to the Underworld to retrieve him, acted as witnesses to his marriage to Emma and cheered the moment they entered Granny’s, whose archway was decorated with a banner that says ‘ **Congratulations to Mr. and Mrs. ~~Hook~~ Jones!** ’ (he sees that someone was kind enough to inform the dwarves that _no,_ Hook was _not his last name_ ).

Even when the townsfolk come up to him with hugs and well wishes and cake and wedding presents.

Emma must sense his unease because she tightens her hold on his hand, her concern palpable when she asks, “You okay?”

He shakes his head, “I think I might be drowning.”

There’s a twinkle in his eyes as he says it and the side of Emma’s mouth curls till the dimple in her cheek deepens and she smiles that secret smile she has only for him.

“You won’t, ” she remarks. Her other hand goes to the anchor around her chest, the one to replace Liam’s ring since it's now wrapped proudly around the ring finger on her left hand, because it sits perfectly nestled in between her collarbones as he runs his knuckles along the length of the chain before resting his hand over hers, right over her (their) heart.

“I’ll keep you afloat.”

**Author's Note:**

> A little something, just to keep you afloat (haha) while you (or at least, some of you) wait for the sequel to you say you want passion. Also because the 5B premiere was hella angsty and minimal on the CS. So here. Have some fluff overload.


End file.
